


Breaker of Chains

by iniquiticity



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Caretaking, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, Relationship Study, Schmoop, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-10
Updated: 2015-12-10
Packaged: 2018-05-05 23:25:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5394104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iniquiticity/pseuds/iniquiticity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It somehow seemed that, in any event when he felt the war was unwinnable, and they were going to surrender, and he would likely be hanged, and there was nothing left -- </p><p>The boys were left. Lafayette was left.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

  * For [stellarer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stellarer/gifts).



> Inspired in no small part by the worshipful wonderful face of [Daveed Diggs in this photo.](https://www.instagram.com/p/_Cs2PDiS_B/)
> 
> Chapter 1: Character/relationship study with a self-indulgent caretaking ending.  
> Chapter 2: 100% Schmoopy, self-indulgent caretaking fic featuring ambiguous relationships.

There was little about this miserable war that brought him any hope. There was a chance - a shred of a possibility, that could be plucked and woven into the future only if providence decided it would be so - that they might win, or at least become such an expensive and unpopular liability that the British would surrender due to pragmatism. That his ragged army’s best chance was that they would _stalemate_ to death the most powerful empire in the known universe was a bitter taste in his mouth, and followed him everywhere, like an iron ball chained to his leg. 

The only thing that he looked forward to with any real optimism were the boys that he surrounded himself with, seemingly by accident. This did not count the men - the assorted generals, all of which held their own impassioned opinions and the dedication that their opinion was the only correct one. This did not count Congress, who he had half a mind to appear back in Philadelphia and individually starve every one of them to explain the predicament that they had put his army in. This did not even count the Baron von Stueben, who was one of the most interesting characters he hoped to ever meet. 

He meant the boys. 

There were a variety of them, he woke up knowing some would be the best possible solution for this country. 

Washington had known something already of the Laurens family from South Carolina, and perhaps at some point had even met Henry Laurens. But Henry’s son, John, who had rushed to serve in the army and immediately to him, as if a strong posting could protect him from an angry father demanding he return home, did not strike him in any manner as the son of wealthy plantation owner. Here was a red-blooded soldier with a doctor’s eye for detail and a keen understanding of plants and animals. Curiously enough, despite the boy’s fortunes and estate, he already showed the clear streak of an abolitionist, and had brought up his black battalion more than once to Washington. It was not the worst idea the general had ever heard, although to imagine the faces of southern delegations when they would be told by some child to arm black slaves - and then free them! - brought a little smile to face, if no one else was watching. His international background, strong grasp of French, well-rounded education and his well-built physique made him an ideal aide. The boy could run up and down the camp for hours and had the curious, much sought-out ability to recover from a bad bullet in his shoulder and still be able to use his hand quite capably. In the summer, Washington would imagine he would spend a fair bit of time showing off what would likely become a vicious scar, as boys were wont to do. He was a strong personality with a good character - a boy who would make an excellent member of a new country.

But John Laurens was nothing in comparison to Alexander Hamilton. Hamilton was without a doubt the most frustrating, obnoxious, brilliant, ever-running and ever-present human yet to be born, and he managed to run a continual stream of opinions through his mouth, even while being completely opaque regarding personal information about himself. (Washington had learned Hamilton’s only secret from the tailor Hercules Mulligan, who explained that the boy was an orphan of illegitimate birth from the West Indies.) Hamilton was short and slim for a soldier, with a boyish face, and had an intense, playful gaze. He liked nothing more than to spend hours discussing not only how he was right about any particular argument, but also what actions should be taken immediately, if not sooner, to establish whatever plan he had thought of. The boy also had two other extraordinary talents: he was the sort of writer that created whole universes out of nothing with little more than a pen and paper, and could do so even in the bitter winter where most men could barely feel their fingers, and he combined that with the uncanny ability to not only read enormous amounts of information on any one subject, but understand and process it in a way most men could only dream of. 

This made him an ideal aide, which deeply contrasted with his one glaring character flaw: he was obsessed with being remembered, and the position of aide-de-camp did not usually result in a glorious and long-standing discussion in the history books. But it was clear to Washington that if Hamilton were to survive this war - and perhaps more importantly, if they were to win - there was no doubt in his mind that the boy would become a brilliant scholar of some kind, and likely a politician of the highest order. Hell, if Washington had his way, the boy would be on his staff for the rest of his career. 

And lastly, there was the Marquis de Lafayette. 

Washington did not usually have a good opinion of highborn, Old World nobles. He had met far too many idiotic, self-absorbed gloryhounds in his day, and if he had had any other choice, Lafayette would not have gotten close enough to headquarters to sniff command - a serious indicator. But young Marquis was vastly and extremely different from any Old World character of any type that Washington had ever met before. Here was a young, absurdly wealthy, land-owning child, extremely well-educated and set with a military lifestyle likely before he was old enough to hunt on his own. What Washington would have expected would be for the boy to charge in, demand generalship, critique what he had done with nothing, make disdainful comments, and then retire to his living quarters to eat a full meal. 

Lafayette stood at his side, curious. Lafayette asked questions in checkered, rapidly-improving English. Lafayette never commented on their poor clothes or bad hygiene or unpowdered hair, but instead mounted his horse amid the louse and sickness, charging headlong into the battle and crying out in the name of American freedom. Lafayette ate whatever was for dinner, and then he would share wine when he purchased it. Lafayette engaged in the same drills that everyone else engaged in - only he actually knew what von Stueben was yelling, which made his participation more noticeable and impressive. 

Much like Laurens, Lafayette did not much resemble the somewhat dislikable kin that he had came from. 

The three boys became close friends, which Washington did not usually expect to happen with an orphan immigrant, the heir to a sizeable plantation, and a member of the French aristocracy. But to look up from his maps and see the three of them bantering in low voices, half in English and half in French, and then one of them would flip the conversation back to strategy, or the future of the government, or some political topic, and from that they would extract some brilliant idea or concept, and he would carefully school his expression because it was extremely troublesome to give Hamilton the idea he was impressed -- 

\-- Was this not what he fought for, as much as anything else? Certainly all three men would find trouble under the king. He could not imagine a boy like Alexander Hamilton living under the iron fist of a monarch. 

He would sit and study maps and read correspondence and listen to the furious noises of Hamilton writing late, late into the night. The two boys were staying in the Potts House with him, and Lafayette had rented a cabin across the street for himself, although the Marquis stayed equally around the Washington headquarters and his own bed, and he would look out his near window and see the young French boy running back and forth across the street at all hours, bundled in as many coats as he could find. 

The three boys, as different as they were, held him in three different regards. John Laurens had been trained and raised in the ways of the easy formality of the plantation elite, and his schooling gave him an understanding of how rank dictated dialogue. He was most an officer to Laurens, who was a hard worker and had what Washington would describe as an extremely complicated relationship to his father. There was no room for Washington in the boy’s life in other respect than an officer, and that was fine. Like in many ways, Laurens was a comfortably moderate personality - predictable for the type of character Washington knew him to be, once he had learned enough about him. 

As opposed to the fairly moderate Laurens, Hamilton tended to establish himself only in an extreme manner in relation any other human, and Washington was no exception. Perhaps as a result of the unfortunate circumstances of his childhood, Hamilton made it quite clear that there was absolutely nothing he was incapable of and required no assistance in any task that he was ever going to undertake. Hamilton permitted Laurens to assist him - the two boys shared a bond Washington quietly ignored, as well as all other associated behavior that came from such a bond - but he made it clear that it was his _choice_ to allow assistance, and he did so only because he wanted Laurens to feel important and valuable.

Washington did not know anything about Hamilton’s upbringing, other than he had been an orphan in the West Indies, but he did not imagine such an upbringing was filled with the in-school learnings and social functions that taught children how to act around their elders or superiors. If there had been this sort of thing in Hamilton’s life, the boy had promptly forgot all such manners upon enlistening. Hamilton had no qualms loudly and publicly disagreeing with any man in the camp, with complete disregard for their station, rank or standing, up to and including himself. Usually, Hamilton would make good points on these arguments, although there were times that he was simply too tired to have this child tell him he was wrong. 

Hamilton at least did not force his hand on whether he really would have the boy whipped for insubordination, at least. 

Additionally, Hamilton was careful to never accept (and if possible, loudly deny) anything that looked like special treatment. He would refuse additional food or drink, and only after a long string of debate with Laurens and Lafayette did he permit himself to move into the Potts House, grumbling the whole time. It was as if Hamilton could never allow the hole in his life resulting from his orphanhood to be resolved, and he went to great lengths to immediately remove anything that looked remotely like a parent from his life, as quick as he was able.

In curious addition, and perhaps in further movement to this point, he called Washington _Excellency_ immediately. It was not Washington’s favorite, but such a thing was not worth an argument with Alexander Hamilton over, even if you were the standing Commander in Chief. 

As with their stations, and despite their friendship, Lafayette could not be more different from Hamilton in this area. 

Lafayette was also an orphan (his father had been killed by the British, and he declined to speak in great detail about his mother), albeit an extremely wealthy one. But unlike Hamilton, who wore his orphanhood as one might wear lightening and stormclouds, Lafayette seemed completely interested having him not only as a general, but also as a close friend. And he was more than old enough to be the boy’s father. 

It had been strange at first, and despite his ability to adapt, he was not sure quite how to manage Lafayette’s affections. That the boy was over-affectionate to anyone - including his two best friends, the men under him, and even the Baron (at his own risk for his purity), was a familiar part of the camp. But Washington had never had sons, or children of any kind that he truly felt were his, and an over-affection boy soldier seemed different in his head than the way Lafayette managed it, with his gentle but courageous heart.

It was not as if Lafayette did not act in deference to his rank. Perhaps it was that Lafayette acted _too much_ in deference, despite that he had been made a Major General, and might have even earned the title. Perhaps it was that Lafayette had a strange understanding of personal space and of personal objects, for he would fix Washington’s hair and coat at any moment, leaving a _voilà_ in his ear and returning to whatever task he had been originally assigned. Perhaps it was the lithe agility of his strong young body, where he would lean against the side of Washington’s desk as the two of them spoke with Hamilton and Laurens. Perhaps it was that Lafayette would cast a sly eye on him as they exited these kind of meetings. 

Laurens would call him _sir._

Hamilton would call him him _your excellency_. 

Lafayette would call him _mon chéri_. 

Lafayette would adjust his jacket before they would exit the room, as if he were some kind of servant. He would tut at Washington’s unshined shoes and put the man’s disgusting boot in his lap to shine it. He would sew any holes that Washington had acquired in his coat, and always with matching thread. At first, Washington had been concerned, that his servants had not been well enough in managing his equipment, but now he understood.

The boy did not act with a servant’s touch. He had the touch of a delicate, beautiful lover, and he touched both Washington and his various accoutrements with a strange, ethereal grace that seemed impossible in a soldier. To watch Lafayette polish the buttons on his jacket made a strange feeling surge through his body. Somehow, this French child had tangled himself into Washington’s heart as if he were a disturbed coil of twine. 

If the two aides were out, and it was only him and the Marquis, Lafayette would draw his fingers over the back of the general’s neck with a gentle kind of pressure that convinced the long-held knots in his muscles to retreat. When Washington was ready to storm Congress or another general’s headquarters or explode from the force of his frustrations, Lafayette would tell him to sit, and he would drape himself into Washington’s lap as if he were a throw blanket or a babe. He would press delicate kisses to Washington’s neck, and rest his head against the older man’s chest, listening to his breathing in silence. The warm weight of the boy's body could drain the stress out of him like nothing else.

When he clenched his pen so hard that his hand shook, Lafayette would sit on his desk and reach for his ink-stained fingers in a nonthreatening, deliberate manner. He would turn Washington’s hand over and press his thumbs in slow, therapeutic circles over the space of Washington’s palm. He would draw hypnotic patterns into the underside of Washington’s wrist with the tip of his nail and talk about the beauty of France in a gentle murmur.

Washington had found it was too difficult to be anything but completely relaxed with Lafayette’s accented English washing over him. Washington could not resist the soft touch of his fingers and the warmth of his lips. It somehow seemed that, in any event when he felt the war was unwinnable, and they were going to surrender, and he would likely be hanged, and there was nothing left -- 

Lafayette was left. 

Lafayette could pluck the white handkerchief out of his hand without a complaint, and intertwine their fingers, and bring both hands to his mouth. Lafayette would press a tender kiss to each of his crackled knuckles. Lafayette would bring the intertwined hands to his chest, and Washington could feel the boy’s heart beating. Steady. Grounding him. 

“For your country, and for your men,” Lafayette said. He reached with his other hand and stroked Washington’s cheek. “And above all, for you, _mon chéri_.”


	2. II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This soldier child made removing his boot seem like an act of celebration and worship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment if you liked reading? Also, tweet me at @picklesnake for more hamilton chatter. :D

He barely made it back the house. Another one of the generals had insisted in holding a meeting at his residence, and that had been so far, and this war was so long, so bleak and hopeless, one stalemate after another, and rooms and rooms of dying men. 

Hamilton was writing by candlelight. He did not have the energy to impress on the boy to go to sleep. Hamilton would refuse, and the discussion would be a mountain of an argument, and he was not sure he could not scale a foothill. He was not sure he could make it all the way up the steps. Perhaps he would use Hamilton’s bed, as the boy would surely not sleep tonight. He knew what had ordered the aide to do, and any other person would have broke under the strain of it. Hamilton did not break. 

A sudden cold blast of air caused him to shudder. The door closed behind him. There were footsteps. He was too tired to turn. 

“I expected you to be back tomorrow, _mon chéri_ ,” said a gentle, soothing voice in his ear. A warm kiss was pressed to the side of his neck, and a cold hand touched the small of his back. “You are to be put to bed, immediately.” 

Lafayette’s words should have been that of a servant, but the boy always somehow managed to say them in a way that made it clear they were utterly acceptable for an aristocrat. The words were so wrapped in kindness and possessed with affection that he could not fight against the hand leading him gently to the steps. 

His legs trembled. He was so tired. The war was so endless and hopeless. 

The hand at the small of his back shifted, suddenly supporting him. He was taller than the boy, but Lafayette nudged him, taking his weight onto strong shoulders. 

“As in all things, one step at a time,” the Marquis said, and so it went. 

By the time Lafayette had lead him to his room and gingerly sat him on his bed, exhaustion had consumed all but thoughts of the war. He could think nothing but the men that could be dying now, and the land being lost. There was work to do, and he was the only one who could do it. He forced his eyes to catch sight of his desk, where a candle burned. There were maps to be read. A new stack of correspondence sat for his review. Letters to be written. 

He focused on his feet, and he moved to stand. 

Hands on his shoulders pressed him down, as gentle as a cloud. 

“It is time for bed,” Lafayette said, gently, but firmly, and he settled him comfortably into Washington’s lap, gloved fingers working at the man’s jacket buttons. “You will become ill and feverish if you are not to sleep. You are not like our _petit lion_ , who can exist solely on his own force of will. You are but a mortal man, albeit the most magnificent of mortals, and mortals must sleep.” 

Washington could not lift his head. He could only watch as Lafayette’s fingers unbuttoned his jacket and pushed it down off his shoulders, taking one limp arm out of a sleeve, and then the other. He followed the boy with his eyes as his jacket was hung, the sleeves brushed off to avoid any extra snow, the buttons and sashes straightened. 

Lafayette retrieved the chair from the desk in the room, sat in it, and lifted one of Washington's feet into his lap. He focused on the ragged laces. 

This was work for servants, but the manner in which the boy undertook these actions so far beneath his station was unparallelled and extraordinary. The general could not explain the sense of it, how this soldier child could make removing his boot seem like an act of celebration and worship. He was also sure he did not want a servant to remove his boot instead of the Marquis. He could only pretend not to be sure what that preference meant. “Lafayette…” 

“ _Oui?_ ” Lafayette asked, and he slid Washington’s boot off and placed it to the side. He pressed his thumbs into the ball of the man’s socked foot and rubbed circles into the wool. The sensation of it was wonderful; he could feel the blood rushing back into the extremity. 

“A servant could---” he started, but Lafeyette scoffed and began to work on the other boot. 

“Only if I provide care to you, do I know it is satisfactory,” the boy said, rubbing his fingers into Washington’s other foot. “It would not be acceptable if your care is substandard, _mon chéri_.”

“It would not be--” Washington started, but Lafayette had sat himself in the man’s lap, taken off his gloves, and placed a finger to his lips. 

He quieted. 

“Taking care of you is a great joy to me,” the boy said, his voice soft, looking down at his lap. 

Washington tilted his head back up with a finger under his chin. “I simply do not wish to impose.” 

“You could never,” Lafayette replied, and he pushed Washington’s suspenders off his shoulders, unhooking them and moving to set them on his desk. He studied Washington’s breeches thoughtfully. 

Washington followed his eyes. The mental image of the Marquis grabbing his pants and pulling them off appeared in his head. Despite the boy’s highborn grace, it did not seem like something that would go well. 

“Just the buttons,” he said, unable to stop the smile rising to his lips. Lafayette grinned back at him mischievously, as if he had imagined the same comedy. He undid the buttons, then reseated himself on Washington’s lap and set his hands to the knot of the man’s cravat. It occurred to Washington that a man sitting on his lap with his fingers at his throat should be dangerous, but this was not a man. This was his boy soldier. In fact, he instead felt a wonderful, half-asleep kind of peace smothering his exhaustion, like the warmth of a sunrise. His eyes drifted as Lafayette placed the cravat on his desk and then resumed his place in his lap, fingers now working on his overshirt. With this off, the Marquis went to retrieve a sleeping shirt. 

Washington watched him through half-lidded eyes. 

“Lafayette --” 

“Gilbert,” Lafayette said, so quietly Washington was not sure he had spoken. “Gilbert,” he said again, a little louder. 

“Gilbert,” Washington repeated. It sounded and felt different in his mouth, but it was not bad. It hovered in the quiet between them as Lafayette put one arm, then the other, into the nightshirt. He began to button it. 

“Lafayette is for them,” he said, “Gilbert is for you.”

“Gilbert,” he said, softly, tipping the boy’s face up to kiss him. He closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against Lafayette's. “Thank you.”

A warm, gentle silence hung between them. 

When he opened his eyes, Lafayette was looking at him, so close that it should have been uncomfortable. 

It was not. He was close as a lover might be, as one might hold their child, as one might keep their other half. Lafayette’s gaze was beautiful and expressive in the way only children could manage - endlessly gentle and caring, somehow more than he deserved. 

Lafayette looked at him like no one else did. In the camp, he carefully coached his feelings, but they were in full display now. There was too much there for him to read all at once. There were so many things said by those eyes, one overwhelming feeling after another. 

He brought both his hands to the Washington’s face, holding him with an exquisite kindness. Washington did not usually spend that much time looking into another man’s eyes, and right now, he wondered why not. How could a man’s eyes could seem so marvelous? Although, perhaps it was merely because they were just like every other part of Lafayette: graceful, elegant and beautiful. 

“No, thank _you_ , _mon chéri,_ ” Lafayette said, finally, and he pressed the most loving kiss to Washington’s forehead. “Now, lay in this bed so I may cover you with blankets. I would be greatly upset if you were to wake with a chill from this devil weather. “

Washington allowed Lafayette to settle the pillow under his head and pull up the blankets, wrapping them around him with his token care. 

“Tell Ham to go to sleep,” he murmured. Lafayette sat at the side of the bed, and nodded, then pressed a kiss to his cheek. “Then back. For more orders.” 

“Yes, sir,” Lafayette said, a teasing smile on his face. Washington closed his eyes and listened to the soft sound of boots on the steps, first up, and then down. A weight sunk the front corner of the bed, and a gentle hand brushed over his hair. “He has fallen asleep at his desk.” 

“Good enough.” 

The weight on the bed began to lift, but he opened his eyes to locate and place his hand on Lafayette’s thigh. The boy sat again, watching him.

“Gilbert,” he said, meeting those glorious eyes.

Lafayette looked at him, then at the hand on his leg. He covered Washington's hand with his own and squeezed the rough fingers. The pressure caused a surge of warmth in his chest. 

Slowly, as if waiting to be given more orders, he removed his hand to unbutton his jacket and untie his cravat. He unlaced his boots and set them aside. He unclasped his suspenders and laid them over his boots. He unbuttoned his breeches and slid them off, folding them neatly, followed by his overshirt. 

Washington summoned the energy to move over, and the boy crawled into his bed like the child that he was. He pressed himself close, tucking his head under Washington's chin and kissing his neck. One of his arms curled close to his chest to avoid taking up space; the other draped over Washington’s side. 

All of a sudden, Washington could wrap his arms around the bed’s new occupant, like a man holding a son who has fled from a thunderstorm or nightmare.

“ _Je t'adore, mon chéri_ ,” he heard. 

They would not wake from this war as if it was a bad dream. But he could not deny the comfort of holding this boy who he cared so much for. Lafayette’s familiar weight and steady breathing grounded him, dissolved the monstrous chains of doubt that encircled him at every moment. In their place, Washington felt something soft and warm surround him, not unlike those slim, strong arms: hope. 

“ _Bonne nuit,_ Gilbert,” he murmured, and looked forward to tomorrow.


End file.
